


freezing hands/bloodless veins

by luckyclovers



Category: Prestuplenie i nakazanie | Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Genre: M/M, set during their university years, they are dormmates because i say so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:42:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29091486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luckyclovers/pseuds/luckyclovers
Summary: in which raskolnikov needs a break & razumikhin is much too kind(rodya studies sociology, mitya studies law—this is just a personal hc!)
Relationships: Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov/Dmitri Prokofich Razumikhin
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	freezing hands/bloodless veins

**Author's Note:**

> this is for lucian’s eyes only... i jest, kind of

A candle flickered faintly, creating the shadows that danced on the walls with fervour. The dorm room itself was shrouded in a comfortable silence, aside from the quiet scratching of ink against the disheveled papers Raskolnikov had been hunching himself over for the past few hours. Razumikhin, who was reading leisurely in his bed, occasionally watched the other’s movements through the corner of his eye. It was nearing the later hours of the evening, and yet he had barely moved an inch from his small writing desk.

“My, what has seized your attentions so firmly?” Razumikhin called out light-heartedly, glancing up from his page in full.

Raskolnikov paused, fountain pen hovering over the surface of his paper in careful thought.  
“I am attempting to transcribe what I can recall from my lessons this morning before I forget them,” he replied slowly.

Razumikhin took note of his page with a leather bookmark and set the novel down on a nightstand.  
“For what reason? Seems a touch unnecessary, tedious no doubt...?

The other man gazed tiredly at the scrabble of words that lay in front of him. He frowned; there were so many things that felt missing—as if a piece of a puzzle had been misplaced, forgotten to the cushions of a chair or the like.  
“I’ve been experiencing some lapses in my memory as of late. If I do not write these matters down now, I fear I will forget them later,” Raskolnikov admitted hesitantly.

“That reminds me of this one time I was talking to an anatomy student in the dining hall,” Razumikhin began, quick to recall from his internal index of social anecdotes. “If I remember correctly, he described to me how sometimes our stresses can rouse up unwanted impediments to the recollections of the brain,” he recited. Raskolnikov turned his head slightly at the thought.

“What exactly are you implying? That I’m troubled…? You’re mistaken, Dmitri; I’m nothing of the sort.”

Razumikhin got up from his bed, shrugging off thin linen sheets, and approached the desk.  
“Look at all of this—it’s excessive,” he said, gesturing at the sprawling papers and blotches of dried ink.  
“You don’t look all too well, either,” Razumikhin continued, using a hand to card through Raskolnikov’s mussed hair. “When’s the last time you’ve eaten anything of substance?”

Raskolnikov stared at the wall ahead, in all of its plain and unexciting glory, as if eye contact would allow the other to read his mind.  
“I… I do not know,” he confessed.

“Ah, well now! That’s no good—no good at all. How will Rodion, our perfect scholar, ever get through his lessons on an empty stomach?” Razumikhin teased. Raskolnikov rolled his eyes.  
“Hush. I don’t want to hear a lick of it,” he huffed, glaring up at the pestering law student. 

Razumikhin smiled gently. “I’ll fetch something from the dining hall; you go on and rest in your bed for the time being, hear me?”  
Raskolnikov closed his eyes. “Fine.”  
With a nod, Razumikhin left the room. For once, Raskolnikov did as he was asked and crawled under his own layers of sheets. They were cold from the neglect; he stared at familiar dorm walls, unfeeling and suffocating.

———

About half an hour later, Razumikhin returned with a tray in hand.  
“Forgive me for the delay; I happened to cross paths with an acquaintance from philosophy down the hall. Wonderful fellow, but he’d talk all day if given the chance… ages had passed before I found the opportune moment to take my leave,” he rambled, surprised by the sight of his roommate in his bed—cooperation was a rare occurrence. Raskolnikov was mildly amused. “That does not surprise me in the slightest. I’d think you were friends with this entire institute if I didn’t know any better.”

“And yet you, the most difficult one of them all, are near and dearest,” Razumikhin countered, placing the tray of food on a small table. “Is that not true, Rodya?”

Raskolnikov’s heart fluttered, and his eyes averted elsewhere. “I suppose so.”

Razumikhin retrieved a bread roll and a small bowl of assorted meat and vegetable stew. He sat down next to Raskolnikov, who had lifted himself to a seated position, and handed him the bowl.  
“I apologize if it is no longer hot,” he sighed dejectedly, taking a small bite out of the roll. Raskolnikov sipped the broth delicately.

“Oh—it's alright. I appreciate the gesture, Dmitri… you did not need to do all of this,” he replied, watching the oils of the stew swirl as he stirred it with the spoon absentmindedly.  
“Why not? I care about you immensely, mind you. God knows what would happen if I didn’t; you would crumble into fine dust, I’d venture. They’ll find me picking off clumps of Rodion from that silly old desk of yours for weeks on end.”  
Raskolnikov laughed quietly, taking a few more sips. “What a morbid imagination you possess.”  
“Hah—! You’re one to talk!” Razumikhin exclaimed with a grin. Raskolnikov was smiling, laughing under his breath; and his friend was soaking up every bit of it. Raskolnikov finished his bowl of stew after a few moments, finding satisfaction in its heartiness. Razumikhin got up to set the empty bowl back down on its tray, then returned to the sociology student’s bedside.  
“Please rest, now—for me. It is time to take a break,” he reminded, brushing away the dark strands of hair that covered Raskolnikov’s eyes. “I will be here when you wake.”  
“Thank you, Mitya,” Raskolnikov mumbled.  
Razumikhin planted a soft kiss on the top of his head. “Do not mention it.”

He stayed seated until the other drifted out of consciousness; he could stare for hours, he thought, watching the slow rise and fall of the other’s chest, having achieved a particular sort of contentment. Love is an awful, awful thing.


End file.
